Murder Most Faire
by Susan M. M
Summary: SG-1/Barney Miller/Benson: SG-1 visits a Renaissance Faire for a little R&R. Reposted to correct minor typographical errors.
1. Visiting the RenFaire

**Stargate SG-1/Barney Miller/Benson (with allusions to Highlander and Sentinel)**

If this were a movie, it would be PG .

Originally published in Chinook #6, a Canadian fanzine. Hurrah for Canada!

_**Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. **_

**Murder Most Faire**

_Stargate SG-1/Barney Miller/Benson_

by Susan M. M.

Teal'c looked around. He saw swordsmen in doublets, Elizabethan ladies in farthingales, and a would-be Xena in a leather bustier, with a fake raccoon tail hanging from her rump. "Explain to me again the purpose of this gathering."

"To prove the old saw about a fool and his money," muttered Colonel Jack O'Neill.

Teal'c raised an eyebrow.

Major Samantha Carter hastily explained, "It gives people a chance to dress up, to listen to music and see live entertainment instead of watching MTV."

"And to pay $5 for a turkey leg," Jack quipped.

"Your televisions shows and movies look to possible futures: _Star Trek, Blake's Seven, Babylon 5, Star Wars._ This Renaissance Faire looks back to an era four hundred years ago." Jonas Quinn lowered his voice, "And our project spends millions of taxpayer dollars to visit other planets. Doesn't anyone on your planet focus on the here and now?"

Jack turned to face the alien. "Why do you think the Earth is such a mess?"

"I came here to watch the Morris dancers, listen to some hammered dulcimer music, and to get Ron Harris to autograph _Murder Most Faire. _If you'd like to relax and enjoy the RenFaire, you're welcome to come with me. If you're just going to be contrary for the sake of pure orneriness, then you can go that way," Sam pointed left, "while I go this way." She pointed right.

"Yes, Mother." Jack pretended to be chastised.

"Arrgh. You're impossible," Sam declared.

Jonas opened the program, changing the subject. "The falconry display is in half an hour at the jousting field, or the storyteller at the Jester's Stage."

Jack inhaled sharply. Back when he and his ex-wife had belonged to Friends of Faire, those had been Charlie's two favorite activities. He'd only been to a RenFaire once since Charlie had died, when he'd taken Daniel last year. "Why don't we just wander a bit, go window shopping?"

"Can one purchase windows here?" Teal'c asked.

"Yes, of course," Jack said with a straight face. "Mostly small stained glass ones."

Teal'c glanced at him, one eyebrow raised, as if he suspected his friend was tweaking his nose, but not quite sure how. Discretion being the better part of valor, the Jaffa warrior turned to Sam. "What is _Murder Most Faire_?"

"It's Ron Harris' new mystery novel. It's set at a RenFaire. He's here selling autographed copies," she explained.

"I thought Harris wrote police procedurals. I figured you more for an Agatha Christie woman," Jack commented as they walked past a jester juggling four apples.

"What, sweet old ladies sipping tea in the vicarage and sussing out clues? I'm a scientist, Jack. I like something that uses actual forensics," Sam replied.

Teal'c stopped to examine some handcarved African art. Daniel Jackson had told him that his own ancestors had come from that continent. The others joined him, Jack barely glancing at the arts and crafts, Jonas examining them all with interest. Samantha bought a brightly colored Nigerian basket.

"What's that for?" Jack asked.

"To carry my purchases in," she replied matter-of-factly.

The colonel raised an eyebrow. "Planning to be a spending fool?"

"I just might. After all, we spend so much time off-world, I don't have much opportunity to hit the mall." Nor much need, she realized, since most of the time she wore uniforms and ate at the base cafeteria.

They stopped to listen to a trio playing a bodhran, a lute, and a deer-bone flute. Jack tossed a Sacajawea dollar into the hat.

Teal'c looked at the hand-dipped candles at the next vendor's booth. "The Tau're have electricity. Why would your people buy candles?"

"Because they're pretty," Sam said. She looked at a few candles herself, then told the merchant: "I might come back later."

The candlemaker smiled and nodded, not believing her. Everyone said that.

A herald shouted, "Make way, make way, for the Queen's Grace!"

A crowd of people in Renaissance garb came forward. One was dressed as Elizabeth I. The rest were dressed as courtiers or guards. Some of the crowd stared, a few oohing and aahing at the exquisite costumes. Some of the crowd (those in garb themselves) bowed or curtsied.

"God save the queen," yelled one of the bystanders.

"God save the queen!" echo'd the courtiers and about a third of the crowd.

'Good Queen Bess' bowed her head, regally acknowledging the salutes.

A middle-aged African-American couple approached from the other direction. They had an escort, too – a uniformed police escort. The gentleman wore a business suit; the lady wore RenFaire garb. The police were not prepared to make way for a make-believe queen, but a few quiet words from the lady in the blue bodice and cream-colored skirt convinced them to step to the side of the path.

The queen's eyes widened in recognition, and she bowed more deeply to the pair. Her courtiers did likewise.

"Who is that?" asked Teal'c.

"I believe that's the governor." Jonas turned to Sam and Jack for confirmation.

Sam nodded. "Gov. DuBois and his wife, ex-Senator Hartford-DuBois."

"Real Horatio Alger story. He went from butler of the governor's mansion to state budget director to lieutenant governor. Eventually ran for governor himself. Got more brains than most politicians," Jack admitted grudgingly.

"Horatio Alger?" Jonas' study of Earth culture hadn't included that reference.

"He wrote boys' books about a hundred years ago. Hackneyed formula plots, but very popular at the time. Young hero goes from poverty to fame and fortune by a little hard work and a whole lot of luck." Jack added, "My grandfather had a batch of them."

"O'Neill, may we stop and examine the weaponry?" Teal'c wandered over to the swordsmith's booth without waiting for an answer.

The others followed him over. Teal'c and Jack looked at the swords with professional interest: claymores, broadswords, rapiers, katanas, scimitars. Teal'c picked up a Scottish dirk with pockets inset in the scabbard for a matching fork and spoon.

"Very nice reproduction," said the man next to him. He had long dark hair drawn back into a ponytail.

The dealer looked up at the dark-haired man and smiled, recognizing him. "Hey, Mac, what do you expect for these prices? You're the antique dealer, not me."

Mac laughed and wandered over to examine a replica of a baskethilt sword.

"What is the purpose of these weapons?" Teal'c asked Jack quietly. "Most of them are unfit for warfare."

"Just for display." Jack glanced up, startled to see Sam buying a bodice knife. "Why are you getting that thing? You don't need an oversized butter knife."

"It's a bodice knife. You tuck it into your bodice," Sam explained, as she deposited the blade in her basket.

"You don't have a bodice."

"Not yet."

A bagpiper stood in the shade of an oak tree, playing 'Mairi's Wedding.' O'Neill tossed another Sacajawea dollar in the tam o'shanter at the piper's feet.

They walked past the jewelry booths. Carter stopped to look at nearly everything.

Finally they reached a long line leading to a small red tent.

"You really want to wait in line that long to buy a book?" Jack asked. When Sam nodded, Jack looked around, then pointed. "We'll wait for you over by the storyteller. At least there's some shade there."

"Okay."

The men headed first to the "tavern," where they bought beers for themselves and a Diet Pepsi for Sam, then to the storyteller's area. Seating themselves on haybales, they listened to the tale of Ben Burns' Borrowed Beard while they waited for Sam.

Despite its length, the line moved fairly quickly. In only a few minutes, Sam found herself in front of a card table. Behind the card table sat Ron Harris, who bore more than a passing resemblance to pictures she'd seen in history books of Frederick Douglass …other than the fact Douglass had never worn an Armini suit. On one side of the table sat piles of books: mostly _Murder Most Faire_, but a few copies of _Blood on the Badge, Manhattan Murder, The Detective's Dilemma, _and his other books. On the other side were a pewter goblet and a half-empty bottle of Perrier.

"Two copies. My agent and I thank you," Harris said. "How would you like these made out?"

"One to Sam, and the other should say Merry Christmas, Jack," she directed.

"Christmas?" Harris glanced at the bright summer day. "You're shopping early."

Sam smiled. "I prefer to avoid crowds at the mall."

Harris smiled back in sympathetic understanding. "There you are. Thank you, m'lady."

"Thank you." Sam placed the books in her basket and wandered over to the storyteller, looking for her colleagues. It only took her a moment to find them. Jack silently handed her the Diet Pepsi. The ice had started to melt, diluting the drink. Nonetheless, it was cold; it was wet. Sam drank it without complaint.

"So the royal messenger reported back to King John, 'They're all mad there! They gave me hay and water, and gave my horse beef and wine. They banged drums all night to help me sleep, and shushed me during the day, so the silence could help me stay awake. I don't know if it's something in the air, or something in the water, but they're all mad there. Stay away,' the messenger pleaded. 'My thanks for the warning,' the king said. 'I'll build my new castle elsewhere.' And that," the storyteller concluded, "was how the people of Gotham fooled King John, and convinced him they wouldn't make good neighbors." The audience applauded.

Sam whispered, "Why did they try to trick the king?"

"Having a king as a neighbor means higher taxes," Jonas whispered back.

A fire-eater replaced the storyteller on the stage. After five minutes of corny jokes (and a very little fire-eating), Jack caught the eyes of his team mates and then looked at the path. The jokes were very bad; the four needed no discussion. They stood and walked off. They wandered past the brass rubbing tent and a vendor selling suncatchers, mirrors, and decorative bits of stained glass.

"Window shopping," Jack murmured to Teal'c. The Jaffa nodded, but said nothing.

Jonas wandered over to a booth selling ocarinas and listened, fascinated, as the saleswoman demonstrated a tune on the clay instrument.

"Aha," Sam said in a satisfied tone.

Jack looked up to see what had caught her attention. "Oh, no."

"What is wrong?"

"We just reached Threadneedle Row. Where all the clothing merchants are," Jack explained. "From the look on her face, we're going to be here a while."

Teal'c looked at his team mate, thought of his wife in the market, and nodded.

Sam examined bodices, chemises, kirtles, gowns, and skirts. She fingered the material: the soft black velvet of the noblewomen's gowns, the white cotton of the chemises, the oatmeal-colored linen of the blouses, the tapestry-covered bodices.

Jack glanced at the price-tag on a brown corduroy bodice and winced. "It's a lot of money for something you can only wear once or twice a year."

Sam shrugged. "It's my money."

"Would've been cheaper to have kept that blue dress the Shavadai gave you."

Ignoring him, she took a dove gray gown, suitable for a Tudor merchant's wife or a minor gentlewoman, off the rack. "May I try this on?"

"Of course, m'lady."

The gray gown didn't fit quite right. And the black velvet noblewoman's gown was likely to be too hot. The green Irish skirt (bodice and skirt all in one garment) wasn't what she was looking for. Sam proceeded from one merchant to the next, looking at all the clothes, trying on some of them.

"If you don't want to wait for me, I can catch up with you later," she offered at the third clothing merchant's. "Should I meet you for lunch?"

The three menfolk exchanged knowing looks. Jonas pulled the map out of his pocket, and they double-checked the location of the food court.

"Great. See you there in a while," Sam said, her attention on a less-than-authentic peasant's underskirt.

"Whadhya think, guys? Will she meet us for lunch or won't we see her until dinner?" Jack asked.

"I'm sure she won't be that long," Jonas replied, but his tone was far from certain.

"Women and shopping appear to be a universal phenomenon," Teal'c observed.

"Amen, brother," Jack agreed.


	2. On a Grassy Knoll

**Stargate SG-1/Barney Miller/Benson **

If this were a movie, it would be PG.

Originally published in Chinook #6, a Canadian fanzine. Hurrah for Canada!

_**Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. **_

**Murder Most Faire**

_Stargate SG-1/Barney Miller/Benson_

by Susan M. M.

A trio of pirates sauntered down the path. One of them stopped a man with a Walkman. "Avast, me hearty. Ken ye the score of the Cascade-Denver game?"

"We're beating the Jaguars, seven to three," replied the man in mundane clothes.

"Huzzah!" roared the pirates. They linked arms, marching along, singing the theme song to Disneyland's Pirates of the Caribbean ride.

Jonas and Teal'c both turned to Jack. He thought a moment, decided it was too complex to explain, and just said, "Never mind. It would be lost in translation."

A look of resigned comprehension passed between the Jaffa and the alien scholar. All too often, that was Jack O'Neill's response to that which he did not wish to explain.

They continued on to a tent selling hats. Teal'c tried on a court jester's hat.

"A little pricey," Jack warned.

"I receive a stipend from General Hammond, yet I rarely spend it." Teal'c tried on a Robin Hood hat and examined himself in the mirror.

"The whole point of wearing a hat to hide Apophis' sigil, so you'll be inconspicuous when you go off base." Jack stared at the plumed cavalier's hat Teal'c was now trying on. "Looking like the Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee is not inconspicuous."

"The Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee?" Jonas repeated.

"It's a poem. 'Ho, for the pirate Don Durk of Dowdee!/ He was as wicked as wicked could be,/ But oh, he was perfectly gorgeous to see!/ The pirate Don Durk' – it's a children's poem, okay?" Jack interrupted himself when he realized he was reciting one of Charlie's bedtime favorites.

"It is a handsome hat," Teal'c persisted.

"At a hundred and fifty dollars, it ought to be," Jack pointed out.

"I've never seen anyone wear anything like it when I've been off base or when I've watched your news media," Jonas admitted.

"You won't see anything like it, except at a place like this or in a history book," Jack informed him. "Trust me. Stick with the baseball cap."

Reluctantly, Teal'c put the plumed hat back on the rack. They meandered on to the privies, and quickly made use of the Port-a-potties.

Near the privies were the games of chance. Jack turned his back on the children's games, unable to look at the booths where Charlie had spent so much time … and so much of his money. Distracted by all the strange sights and sounds, Teal'c and Jonas failed to notice his reaction.

The two aliens tried their hands at several of the games while Jack waited impatiently. Teal'c's warrior training gave him superior eye-hand coordination. He soon found himself victorious, and the owner of a Teddy bear dressed like Robin Hood.

"What am I to do with this?" the Jaffa asked his companions.

"Maybe you could give it to Cassandra," Sam suggested.

The three men turned to see their team mate standing behind them. They tried not to stare. They didn't quite succeed. Sam wore a tapestry bodice with a floral pattern over a white blouse. The hilt of her knife peeked out from the top of her bodice. She wore an apricot overskirt, with one corner pinned up to show off a sky-blue underskirt. A straw hat to protect her from the sun completed the ensemble.

"You look …" Jonas began, then stopped. It was his first RenFaire, and describing her clothing was something he didn't know how to attempt. " …good."

"Your appearance differs considerably from your usual mode of dress," Teal'c observed.

"That's the general idea," Sam said. She turned to Jack O'Neill, curious as to his reaction. As her commanding officer, he was strictly off-limits to her. Nonetheless, she was aware his feelings for her went beyond those of a friend, and she couldn't resist checking to see what he thought of her so very out-of-uniform.

Once the colonel managed to get his eyes back in their sockets, he informed her, "You could've got the same hat at Walmart for a third of the price."

"Maybe." _Jack, you're a damned good officer, but you have no romance in your soul,_ she thought. "The bodice is reversible; it's blue on the other side."

Jack tried not to think about helping Sam unlace the bodice.

They meandered on to the foodsellers' row, where Teal'c got a turkey leg, Jack got shepherd's pie, Sam got chicken rice soup in a bread bowl, and Jonas got fish and chips. They chatted while they ate, then threw the trash in the trash can and the empty water bottles in the Boy Scouts' recycling bin. For dessert Sam treated everyone to strawberries dipped in chocolate. Teal'c, who had become a chocoholic since immigrating to Earth, ate twice as many as anyone else.

Afterwards, she talked them into going to the jousting field. Jonas and Teal'c watched, fascinated, as knights charged at each other. Jack tried to ignore the memory of his son sitting beside him at a similar show, yelling 'huzzah' at the top of his young voice. Sam glanced at him once or twice, but most of her attention was on the field.

When the jousting demonstration was over, the falconers came out. They introduced several different types of birds: Harris hawks, peregrine falcons, horned owl. Normally, Jack would've been fascinated, but today Charlie's ghost was too strong.

"I'm getting saddle sore," he lied. "Let's wander a bit."

Reluctantly, the others followed him out of the arena. They stopped to listen to a harper singing 'Tom O'Bedlam.' Jack picked up her tapes and CDs, pretending to examine them, until he felt completely in control of himself. When he felt sure he'd regained his composure, he tossed a Sacajawea dollar into her hat and walked on, not even caring which way he was going.

"Why do you always give dollar coins instead of paper money?" Sam asked.

"The wind won't blow coins away." It was a half-truth. Charlie had always insisted on using coins instead of bills when tipping the minstrels; he said it felt more in period. Of course, then it had been Susan B. Anthony dollars.

"The program says there's a recreation of the attack of the Spanish armada in a little bit. What's a Spanish armada?" Jonas asked.

"Spanish fleet attacked England during Queen Elizabeth's reign. Luckily for England, the weather was against the Spaniards. Big wind blew half their fleet off course," Jack explained. "The recreation will be noisy," he warned.

"I think we can handle it. We're not exactly in a quiet profession," Sam pointed out. She led the way to another jewelry counter. Both she and Teal'c examined the necklaces, bracelets, and rings.

The Jaffa selected a pewter ankh necklace. "I shall purchase this for my wife." He turned to Jack, who dug into his pocket for his wallet. Teal'c let Jack play his banker when they went out into Tau're society. As a Jaffa, he had never needed to handle currency.

The next vendor was a woodcarver, whose merchandise ranged from $5 Welsh love-spoons to $20 Celtic cross wall hangings to a $250 dragon. Jack picked an exquisitely carved wolf, turned it over to look at the price tag, exhaled sharply, and quickly put it back on the table.

They wandered past a perfume and incense dealer – the wares were too stinky to examine in detail – to a fortuneteller's tent selling Tarot cards, pewter and wooden runes, neo-pagan themed jewelry, and paperback guides to the occult. A sign offered readings, Tarot or palmistry, for five dollars.

Jack took one look at the booth selling dried-apple dolls, asked "Why?", and continued onward.

The next vendor's tent was double the size of the others. Sam and Jonas were drawn into the bookseller's tent, like iron filings to a magnet. The emphasis was on history books, of course, with some biographies, historical fiction, occult books, costuming books, fairy tales, etc. Sam checked to see no one was watching, then started looking at a pile of used paperbacks. Such books would mean nothing to Teal'c or Jonas, but she knew Jack would never let her hear the end of it if he saw her buying bodice-rippers. Jonas, meanwhile, was looking at the Dover coloring books. Teal'c and Jack followed them into the tent, glanced at some of the titles, then went outside to watch a juggler tossing five apples in the air.

"May I attempt this?" Teal'c asked the juggler, pointing to the wooden balls and clubs lying on the ground beside him.

The juggler nodded his permission, warning, " 'Tis more difficult than it looks."

Teal'c picked up three wooden balls and started juggling. Jack picked up the clubs and juggled them. They began tossing their clubs and balls back and forth, catching and returning them effortlessly. The small audience turned from the man in court jester's garb to the two members of SG-1, who were putting on a better show.

"Beginner's luck?" the juggler asked, not quite hiding the sarcasm in his voice.

"Well, maybe we've done this before," Jack admitted.

"It is possible," Teal'c conceded dryly. A year or two ago, he and Jack had been caught in a time loop. They had taught themselves juggling as a way to alleviate the boredom as they relived the same day, over and over again. The merest shadow of a smile crossed Teal'c's lips, as he remembered the look on Daniel Jackson's face as they displayed their juggling virtuosity. For Dr. Jackson and the rest of SGC, each relived day had come without memory of having done the same before; only Teal'c and Jack were aware of the repetition of the same day, again and again and again.

"What are you doing?" Jonas came out of the tent, Sam a few feet behind him.

"Nothing." Jack laid the clubs back down on the ground. "Whatcha get?"

"Damned Rebel Bitches. It's about women in the 1745 Jacobite uprising." Sam did not mention the two bodice-rippers in her basket, hidden beneath her mundane clothes.

Teal'c looked up. "Who is that man on that hill?"

They all glanced at a man in garb standing atop a small grassy knoll, aiming a blunderbuss.

Sam suggested, "Probably part of the armada demonstration."

The cannons of the Spanish armada fired. The man timed his shot to match theirs. In the glen below, one of Gov. DuBois' police guards fell to the ground as the bullet struck his shoulder. His partner shoved the governor behind him. Drawing his gun, he looked around for the assassin.

"That didn't sound like a musket." Jack could tell an AK-47 from an Uzi from a Colt .45 by their sounds. And he'd spent enough time at various historical recreations, like RenFaires and mock Revolutionary and Civil War battles, to know what a musket sounded like. He looked at the man, who was aiming again. "Give me that ball."

Teal'c handed him the wooden ball. Jack threw. He didn't knock the blunderbuss from the assassin's hand, but he did hit the weapon, sending the shot into the air. Teal'c handed him another ball without waiting for the order. Jack threw again, this time hitting the assassin in the belly. Like Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders, SG-1 charged up the hill.

The assassin was still groaning in pain, trying to get up when SG-1 reached him. Teal'c and Jack took him prisoner. Sam examined the blunderbuss.

"He's got a fake shell over a .22," she announced.

"That juggler works here. Tell him to contact Faire security," Jack ordered Jonas.

Within minutes, Faire security guards (who normally had no more hazardous duties than ejecting drunken patrons or idiots who couldn't keep their swords peace-bonded) had the assassin in custody, until the county sheriff could arrive. The wounded police officer was being treated at the first aid tent while he waited for an ambulance. And SG-1 were being given a joint audience with 'Queen Elizabeth I' and Governor Benson DuBois.

"Shucks, weren't nothing," Jack told the governor.

"We disagree," Good Queen Bess pronounced in regal tones.

Benson DuBois raised an eyebrow. The faux queen bowed graciously and stepped back, waiving her place to the mundane governor. "I think it was something. Who are you? How did you manage it?"

"We work at Cheyenne Mountain," Jack said quietly, "and we'd rather our names didn't get in the newspaper."

DuBois nodded. He didn't know half of what went on at Cheyenne Mountain, but he knew nearly everything that occurred there was classified. "Gotcha. I can keep it out of the papers, or attribute it to Faire security. Can I at least buy you a beer?"

"Don't think the general would object to that," Jack agreed. "I sure as Hell won't."

SG-1 spent the rest of the afternoon as honored guests of the Faire, and ate that evening at the royal banquet. In addition to the beer the governor insisted on treating them to, the queen provided them with gift certificates redeemable at any vendor in the Faire. Jack indulged himself with psaltery and hurdy-gurdy CDs. Sam went back and applied the certificates toward the price of her garb. Jonas treated himself at the booksellers. And Teal'c returned to SG-C wearing a velvet cavalier's hat "with a floppety plume …and when he went walking it jiggled – like that" just like the Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee.


End file.
